Classic Poem

PART I

A T San Estavande Germaz loudly do the trumpets peal,
In the camp of Don Fernando, valiant Noble of Castile:
For the Moorish King, Almanzor, cometh with his dusky swarm,
From Cordova thither wending, this devoted town to storm.

All the knights upon their horses sit, full armed in flashing steel:
Seeking through their ranks there rideth Don Fernando of Castile:
" Paskal Vivas! Paskal Vivas! every knight is on his steed —
Flower of our Castilian Knighthood, wilt thou fail us in our need?

" Thou who wert the first on horseback, when the glorious summons rang,
Hear'st thou not my voice appealing, nor the battle-trumpet's clang?
Wilt thou fail the Christian army on this great and final day?
Wilt thou let thy garlands wither, and thy victory-wreaths decay? "

Paskal Vivas cannot hear him — he is in a wood's deep gorge,
Where, upon a green hill shining, stands the Chapel of Saint George:
At the door his steed is standing, spear and shield upon him shine,
And the Knight, in rapt devotion, kneeleth at the holy shrine,

He, so lost in meditation, heareth not the battle's sound,
Which, like moaning winds, doth echo through the woody mountain's round —
Heareth not his war-horse neighing, nor the sound his armour makes,
Loud enough to wake his patron — for Saint George, the true, awakes!

From the clouds he cometh downward, takes the armour of the Knight,
Mounts upon the Knight's proud war-horse, and is borne amid the fight.
Like to him no champion chargeth, flashing hero of the skies!
Now he wins Almanzor's standard, now the Moorish army flies!

Paskal Vivas has concluded piety's absorbing prayer:
Steps outside Saint George's chapel, finds his steed and armour there:
To the camp in thought returneth, looks about in wild amaze,
When the joyous trumpets greet him with the festal notes of praise:

" Paskal Vivas! Paskal Vivas! proud Castilian knighthood's sun,
Be thou praised, most noble victor, for the standards thou hast won!
How thy arms are clotted over — in the conflict torn and rent!
How bedecked with wounds the war-horse, that so bravely with thee went! "
Paskal Vivas vainly striveth all their praises to deny;
To their songs he bendeth lowly — pointing silently on high!

PART II

'Mid her flowers the Countess Julia wanders in the evening air
Fatimaun, Almanzor's nephew, takes the lovely captive there —
Flies with his delicious booty through the green woods night and day,
With ten trusty Moorish horsemen, armed to guard him on the way:

When the third morn brightly dawneth, come they to that wood's deep gorge,
Where, upon a green hill shining, stands the chapel of Saint George;
From afar the Countess looketh, sees the Saint's great image stand
At the little open church-door, carved in stone with spear in hand.

Just as when the conquer'd dragon felt his spear's resistless shock,
Whilst the trembling, pale King's daughter tarried chain-bound to the rock;
Weeping, and her white hands ringing, speaks the Countess with affright —
" Oh! Saint George, thou holy champion, help me from this dragon's might. "

See! — upon a white steed springing, from the chapel who doth bound,
With the golden tresses waving, and the purple mantle round;
Powerfully his spear he swingeth, strikes the robber Fatimaun,
Who upon the ground is writhing, as the pictured dragon's drawn.

And the ten armed Moorish horsemen, with a wild and frantic wail,
Shields and lances from them flinging, fly away o'er hill and vale;
On her knees the Countess Julia, dazzled — blinded, doth adore:
" Oh! Saint George, thou holy champion, be thou praised for evermore! "
As again her eyes she raises — quickly must the Saint have fled,
For there stood — so rumour telleth — Paskal Vivas in his stead!